An Excellent Wife (5 page)

'He's taken our puppy and he's going to drown it!' one of the children sobbed.

'Make him give it back.'

Patience was greeting dogs, her small hands busy on their heads, impeded by their licking tongues. 'What puppy?' she asked the tallest child, a boy with a mop of familiar red hair and eyes like melting toffee.

the old man answered her gruffly. 'They found it and brought it home with them. As if there weren't enough dogs underfoot without bringing puppies back here!'

'I found it,' the smallest child said,' a little boy with spiky ginger hair. 'I bringed it home in my spaceship.'

'Spaceship?' asked Patience.

'Her wheelbarrow,' interpreted the eldest boy.

Her
wheelbarrow? That was a girl?

Patience smiled down at the smallest child, ruffling the hedgehog-like hair.

'Where did you find it, Emmy? It must belong to someone! They'll be worried about it; we must let them know the puppy is safe.'

'No good,' the old man grunted. 'They don't want it back. They're not daft; they jumped at the chance to get rid of it.'

'The lady at Wayside House gave it to me!' said Emmy. 'She said nobody wanted it and I could have it, and it likes me. It wanted to come with me, it licked my face and jumped in my spaceship, but Joe says he's going to drown it. Don't let him, Patience, please...'

Emmy began to cry, tears seeping out of her eyes as if she was melting, and trickling down her small face.

'This place is already overrun with animals; we've got to take a stand!'

"I hate you, I hate you,' Emmy sobbed, and kicked the old man with surprising violence on his ankle.

He hopped back. 'Here, you stop that!'

As if at a given signal, the children all surged forward and were clearly about to launch a physical attack on him, too, but Patience said sharply, 'No! Don't be naughty, children!' and they fell back obediently but glared and muttered.

'He's a nasty man!' Emmy said, still dripping tears.

'And what business is it of his, anyway?' the tallest boy said, his voice breaking with temper, making him sound oddly touching, stranded halfway between child and man, neither one nor the other.

Patience produced a handkerchief and gently wiped Emmy's wet little face.

'You shouldn't kick grown-ups; you know that, Emmy.'

'Not even if they deserve it?' the tall boy asked cuttingly.

Patience looked confused. 'Not even then, Toby,' she said at last, and the children shifted, scowling.

By then James had worked out that there weren't actually a dozen, only about half a dozen, and he wasn't sure if they were all related. The ones with hair on the red side were probably related to Patience; the three others of about the same ages were probably just their friends.

Barny got out of the car and came up the steps, asking quietly, 'Are you coming, sir? I have to get back to Enid, if you remember, or we'll be late for the theatre.'

Patience swivelled to look at James; the children, the old women and the old man all stared, too, silenced for a second or two and taking James in then, their eyes curious, probing. 'Is it him?' the children whispered to Patience, who nodded at them, putting a finger on her lips.

James knew he should be going. This whole family were obviously crazy.

Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. His life had always been so neat and ordered, a world of calm colours and hushed voices. He couldn't help being fascinated by this revelation of & very different universe and he hesitated, feeling he should leave yet so curious he knew he would stay.

'Off you go, Barny, you mustn't keep Enid waiting. I'll get a taxi,' he said offhandedly.

Barny nodded. 'Yes, sir.' For some reason he smiled, too, as if he was pleased with James, although why he should be James could not imagine, flushing slightly and feeling irritated and self-conscious. Barny went back down the steps; the car drove off and James felt one last wild urge to run after it, but at that instant a tiny hand twined itself around his fingers.

He looked down into the bright green eyes of the little girl.

'Come and see my puppy. Do you like puppies?'

'Don't encourage her,' said the old man. 'You can see how many dogs we've got. The last thing we need is another dog, and this puppy isn't even house-trained; it leaves puddles everywhere and it has already torn up a cushion and Mrs Green's slipper—chewed it to bits, it did.'

'Oh, never mind that old slipper! I don't care twopence about it. Don't you drown that poor little mite on my account!' said a spry, white-haired woman whose blue flowered apron exactly matched her blue eyes. 'I'll soon house-train him. I've always had a soft spot for a Jack Russell, and he'll certainly keep the vermin down. We won't need to worry about rats or mice if we have that little chap here.'

'Oh. that's it! Undermine my authority!' scolded the old man.

'What authority?' snorted Mrs. Green. 'Who do you think you are?' Those kids have got the right idea—a good kick is what you need. Joe!"

'Lavinia!' interrupted Patience. 'Please, can we stop all this squabbling?

Emmy, take Mr Ormond to see your puppy, but supper won't be long, so make sure you bring him back to the kitchen in time to wash his hands.'

Emmy looked up at James confidingly. 'She's very bossy.'

'Yes, I noticed that,' said James, not particularly interested in this puppy but fatalistically accepting that he was going to see it whether he wanted to or not. These children took after their sister. They were steamrollers in human form. Just like her.

WHEN he had seen and admired the children's puppy, all big eyes and muddy paws, rescued from the garden shed where the old man had locked it and where it was whining piteously, James was given a tour by Emmy, who appeared to have made him her property and was determined that he should see everything she considered of interest in the garden. The puppy skidded along with them, tail wagging excitedly.

James gazed obediently at the golden trumpets of the daffodils, bluetits nesting in a home-made nestbox nailed onto the side of a fir tree, a sea of green shoots which would soon, Emmy assured him, become a sea of bluebells, and the' cedar tree into which young Toby climbed to stare down at the rest of them, his skinny legs in grubby jeans dangling over a branch while the puppy scampered through the long wild grass, barking in all the secret places between shrubs which Emmy said were the dens.

'We have one each. This is mine,' she proudly informed him, squeezing through thick branches into the small space behind and peering out at him. 'I don't let anyone else in—but you can come in, Man.'

'I can't, I'm too big,' James said, wishing he had had a den like that when he was small. The gardeners who had looked after his father's garden would never have stood for him having a den in their immaculately maintained grounds, however. He'd only been allowed in the garden when somebody was with him, in case he did some damage.

'Don't be sad, Man,' Emmy said, emerging again and taking his hand, giving it a comforting pat. 'Never mind. Thomas will let you play in his den, won't you, Thomas?'

By then James had identified the two Kirby boys; Thomas must be ten and Toby fourteen. He had not liked to ask about their parents; somehow he sensed that both were dead—they were certainly never mentioned. It was Patience the children talked about.

'Sure, okay,' Thomas said, pushing aside some leaves to display his own den, which contained an old log on which were arranged a litter of leaves. 'See?

I've got a table.' He thought. 'And it can be a chair, too, if you want it.'

With the children gazing at him expectantly James felt he had to bend and squeeze himself through the shrubs into the small space.

'You can sit down on the chair,' Thomas kindly offered, joining him.

James sat, with difficulty, because his legs were too long, and Thomas let the branches swing back. At once they were plunged into green shadow made by the last of the light flickering down through the leaves. They could only dimly see the others, outside.

'Great, isn't it?' Thomas prompted.

'Magic,' James said, wishing his vocabulary with children was not so limited. He had had almost no experience with them since his own childhood. It must be very sad for Emmy, Thomas and Toby to have no parents; they were lucky that they had an older sister. His mouth twisted—come on, be honest! he told himself. These kids have a happier life than you ever did, don't they?

His father had never been unkind to him, but he'd rarely been around anyway. Given the choice, James would have swapped places with the Kirby children any day; he could see that their lives were busy, cheerful and full of affection, thanks to their sister.

'How old is Patience?' he asked Thomas.

'Twenty-three next week. How old are you?'

James grimaced. 'A lot older than that.'

'Do you have any children?'

'No.' He had never wanted any; suddenly he wondered if his life would have been richer, warmer, if he had had some.

'Are you married?' Thomas had the curt curiosity of a detective; his questions came like bullets.

'No.'

'Got a girlfriend?'

Warily James said, 'Maybe. Have you?'

Thomas laughed. 'Maybe.'

James liked him. They both jumped as, from somewhere in the house, a loud voice yelled.

'Come in for supper, all of you, and bring Mr Ormond unless you've lost him.'

'Patience!' explained Thomas.

'I recognised her voice.' Not to mention the way she referred to him as if he were a parcel rather than a man. So she was almost twenty-three? He would have said she-was younger; he had been sure she was closer to childhood than that. She had such soft, clear, glowing skin and such a direct gaze, none of the pretences or defences of adulthood. None of the manners, either, he thought grimly, remembering the way she had badgered and bamboozled him into coming here.

'There's a big gap between Patience and Toby, isn't there?' Why had their parents waited so long to have another child?

'Our mum wasn't her mum!' Thomas told him pityingly, as if he ought to have known, or at least guessed that. 'Patience's mum died when she was born and our Dad married our Mum and had us.'

James stared. 'Oh, then she isn't...?'

Before he could finish that sentence Thomas gruffly and with obvious indignation said, 'But she's our sister, all the same! She was five when Dad married our mum, and she loved our mum; she told us lots of times. She loved having a mum like everybody else, and then when we were born that made us a real family, Patience says.'

James had never felt so clumsy and insensitive in his life. 'Of course,' he quickly said, going dark red.

The leaves parted and Emmy peered in. 'We'd better go in; she can get very cross if you're late for meals.'

James was relieved to escape from the boy's clear, accusing stare, and began crawling out through the bushes. So, she was their half-sister? They obviously adored her, and she understood them—well, she was barely out of childhood herself. Twenty-three. That wasn't very old. He remembered being that young. With difficulty. Well, he was not staying for supper; he would ring for a taxi at once and get back to the safety and peace of his own home.

Somehow, though, the prospect did not appeal— Barny and Enid would be out. He would have to rummage around for a snack for himself, probably ending up with a cheese sandwich or something equally easy to prepare, then spend the rest of the evening alone in an empty house.

Of course, he could go to his club or a restaurant, but that wasn't an exciting prospect, either. Had his life always been this lonely and empty? Or was he just depressed for some inexplicable reason?

The young Kirbys led him back down the winding paths of the garden to the house; their friends disappeared in all directions to their own homes and James followed Emmy through a door into what turned out to be the kitchen.

It was enormous: high-ceilinged, painted yellow, with green cupboards—a cosy, comfortable room, full of a delicious smell of food. A great pan was boiling away on an old range, filling the air with steam, and beside it was another pan which bubbled and gave off that marvellous smell of vegetables and herbs. At the well- scrubbed deal table stood a woman grating mounds of cheese without looking up.

'Wash your hands and be quick; this is nearly ready!' dictated Patience, taking hold of the handle of the pan and pouring the contents into a sink.

James went over to watch her, and discovered pasta filling a huge colander with golden, steaming coils. His stomach clenched in sudden hunger; he loved spaghetti. He looked into the pot still cooking: tomato, mushrooms, red, green and yellow peppers, and a strong odour of basil, chives, onions and garlic. His nose had already identified most of them.

'Have you washed your hands?' Patience demanded, looking round at him sternly, as if he was one of the children?

James opened and shut his mouth like a goldfish, meaning to tell her that he was not eating but so hungry he knew he would not give the words any credibility.

'Come on, Man,' Emmy told him, dragging him away. 'She gets cross if you aren't sitting down at the table when she brings the supper in!'

They washed in a small room next to the kitchen, then Emmy pulled him down a chilly corridor into a big room full of people, all sitting around an enormous table. James was horror-struck by meeting so many strangers all at once; in self-defence he bowed slightly, saying in a pompous voice, 'Good evening, how do you do? I'm James Ormond.'

There was a general murmur in reply. 'Hallo,' some said. Others said, 'Good evening.' James looked hurriedly from face to face—was one of them his mother? But he did not recognise any of the old ladies who bobbed their heads and smiled. Lavinia was not one of them; he remembered her. She must have been the woman he had glimpsed in the kitchen, helping Patience.

Emmy pulled him down onto a chair next to her just as Patience came into the room wheeling a trolley on which sat large green soup plates of pasta, which was now well mixed with the sauce he had seen cooking. Toby and some of the old ladies helped her put the plates in front of each person around the table.

Patience stood behind her own chair. 'Whose turn is it to say grace? Emmy?'

'Yes, me. Lord, thank you for our daily bread,' Emmy said at a gallop.

Everyone else said, 'Amen.'

'Help yourself to cheese and bread,' Patience told James briskly, putting a plate before him. The smell of the spaghetti was heavenly.

He took a chunk of granary bread from the big wicker basket in the middle of the table, sprinkled some grated cheese over his pasta and picked up his fork and spoon. He often ate Italian food and deftly wound spirals of pasta onto his fork and lifted it to his mouth while Emmy watched him admiringly.

'How d'you do that? Mine falls off all the time.'

Everyone looked at James, who flushed under their eyes. 'Like this,' he said, showing Emmy how to separate some spaghetti, then twist her fork round and round. 'Now you try.'

She slowly copied him, the tip of her pink tongue between her lips. Pink with success, she lifted the fork towards her mouth and the spaghetti flopped off again. Everyone laughed.

'It's slippery stuff,' James quickly said as Emmy reddened, her mouth quivering. Like most small children, she was very sensitive to mockery; James couldn't bear to see her look like that.

'Like pink worms,' Thomas added. 'Careful they don't wriggle off your plate, Em, and go down under your clothes.' He held up a long, drooping strand of spaghetti and waved it at his sister, who shrieked.

'Stop that, Tom.' Patience leaned over and cut some of the little girl's spaghetti into short lengths. 'Use your spoon if you like, Em.'

Emmy began to eat much faster, and for a few moments there was silence as people ate with bent heads.

James loved every mouthful; even Enid did not make pasta better than this.

Simple food needed to be perfectly cooked to work, and this was perfectly cooked pasta. Patience was a very good cook.

'Wine?' asked Patience, offering James a large china jug.

'Oh...er, thank you.' He looked a little suspiciously at the contents; it would be cheap stuff and no doubt more like vinegar than wine, but it was either that or the jugs of water or milk which the children were drinking.

Patience poured wine into his glass; James very warily tried a mouthful, rolling it round his tongue before he risked swallowing. Well, it was rough but it wasn't sour; it had a country taste which matched the vegetables in the sauce. He took another mouthful; yes, it was really quite pleasant. He had once spent a month touring the Italian countryside, and this was the sort of table wine you were served in a remote Italian village in the summer. He had happy memories of sitting under a vine at some trattoria with a glass of this rough local wine and a plate of pasta served with a sauce of either tomato or pesto.

He finished his meal with a sigh of completion. The empty plate was suddenly whisked away; the table was being cleared. Was the meal over? He looked sideways at Patience, who appeared to be able to read minds.

'There's plums and custard now,' she said. 'Our own plums; I bottled them myself last autumn. They aren't very big but they've got a nice flavour. We grow as much stuff as we can, especially vegetables.'

'Yes, I saw the vegetable garden on my tour of the garden.' James looked around; nobody was listening to them—they were all too busy talking to each other. Offhandedly he asked, 'So, when am I going to meet...? Where is...?'

'Where's your mother?' Yes, she could definitely read minds. He nodded, hoping she would keep her own voice down.

He didn't want the whole table to know what they were talking about, although no doubt they were aware why he was here—even the children, who seemed to know everything that was going on in this house.

'She's upstairs,' Patience said softly, 'in bed; she wasn't too well today. She does come downstairs, for a few hours, on her better days. I encourage her to do that ^ because it's so depressing to be stuck upstairs alone all"the time; I think she needs company. She certainly always looks happier afterwards.

But she wasn't up to it today; she knew I was going to try to see you and it upset her, made her very nervous, so I told her to stay in bed. I'll take you up to see her after supper.'

He did not want to see his mother. He stared at nothing, feeling anger burning in his chest, suddenly afraid he might make a fool of himself, might lose control, lose his temper or, even worse, cry. He had learnt at a very young age not to show his feelings, not to let anyone guess what was going on inside him. The idea of breaking down in public was a nightmare. He couldn't risk it, especially in front of this girl's clear, direct gaze. She might be sorry for him. A shiver ran down his spine at the very idea. That was the very last thing he would want.

Several of the older women were clearing the table, going out to the kitchen with the used plates and returning with a huge bowl of red plums in a glistening syrup. Full 6f sugar, thought James glumly; full of calories, too.

As for the calories in those jugs of yellow custard; he would hate to think what they added up to! When he ate fruit it was fresh and low in calories. He would not have either plums or custard!

The children went round the table skimming small bowls into place in front of everyone. He opened his mouth to tell them not to give him one but too late; Thomas had already hurried on. A moment later the bowl of plums appeared in front of him. 'Help yourself,' Patience invited.

'Thanks, but I really don't think I...'